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Something about how the days spring one from another, unstoppable and with an undeniable dependence that owes nothing to the moon cycles, never falls too far from the tree and never cares much for the arresting beauty of a fully starry night.

Days are to this planet like the necessity of heroes is to the human kind. Set man free from his bondage to his idols and you are bound to witness the loneliest and most obscure of days you will ever know.

Day, this goes out to you and your true form: the starting point.

The beginning and the end of the cycle and the chariot of fire that paints the sky in bright orange and that attempts to do nothing but to be. Day, this is for you, the incandescing germ that does not act, instead is and that is not asked to be but carries on.

Day, this is for you for not asking me to continue but simply suggesting life by being present and by indicating that, like yourself, this struggle is for no reason and that only the brightness of being can be enough.

Being is enough.

Day, this is for you and you alone shall see what I see without asking proof or arguments, without feeling a thing but knowing: trust is the stuff perseverance is made of.

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